Read Online Detour by Martin M. Goldsmith - Free Book Online Page A

Came in the afternoon mail. I stuck it in the bathroom on top of your cold-cream jar—or my cold-cream jar, to be exact, if you'll pardon the implication—so you'd be sure to find it.”
    “Alex?”
    “How should I know? I didn't open it.”
    I began to pray it would be from Alex. He hadn't written for such a long time—months and it worried me. I was so used to hearing from him regularly once a week. Of course it was my own fault. I hadn't kept up my end of the correspondence because there really was nothing to write about. I didn't have the cheek to write lies to him like I did to mother, saying that I was doing splendidly, that the studios would soon be fighting for me, etc. Alex would know better.
    As I hurried into the bathroom and felt around in the dark for the envelope, I had his name on my lips. I needed Alex that night more than I had ever needed him before. Just his familiar scrawl would help me to get out of the rotten mood I was in, would surely aid in forgetting the impossible thing I'd done. Alex was a dear. He was a clumsy old thing, bashful as a schoolboy, and, except for his music, a dummy; but I adored him. Although he was occasionally annoying, he alone had the power to quiet my nerves whenever they might be on edge. Sometimes his solicitousness would make things worse, but soon I couldn't help but love him for his clumsy attempts to please me. It was practically impossible to stay angry with him for any length of time. If I spoke harshly to him I was always instantly sorry, for he hurt easily.
    Reviewing our affair, I decided it must have been one of those everyday cases of love at first sight. I had first taken notice of him during a chorus rehearsal when he stood up and asked Bellman's permission to leave the room. He wasn't trying to be funny, either. He really had to go. Of course everyone laughed and he blushed like a child. Then, when one of the girls offered him her hat, he got so flustered and looked so pathetic up there on the stand, that it went to my heart. I felt like running up and kissing him, the boob. Yes, he was a boob. I had to work on him all of three weeks before the poor fish even asked to take me out. I threw myself in his path at every opportunity and flashed him my prettiest smiles; I asked him the time and would he give me a cigarette and match. Finally, after a siege, when I kissed him good night for the first time, he didn't even make a move to follow it up. Perhaps he was frightened or bashful or something, I don't know. Men are funny, sometimes. A girl can semaphore every signal in the book before the fellow wakes up and finds the war is over. Now Raoul....
    The letter was not from Alex. When I carried it into the bedroom I saw it was from my mother, with the usual sob story and broad hint. She could use this; she could use that. Mother could always use something, the old parasite. If only she knew how tough it was for me to lay my hands on a few dollars! I don't suppose it is very nice for a daughter to talk about her mother that way but what had she ever done for me? Bear me, that's all. And probably she would have avoided that if she hadn't been such a rabid Catholic. Just the way she talked to Alex that day when he tried to reinstate me alone was enough to sour me on her for life. We had done nothing wrong. We were having an affair, yes. But we loved each other and Alex would have married me in a minute if I'd said the word. Anyway, what right had she to complain? She wasn't the one who had to worry...
    Which reminded me.
    I couldn't afford to waste another minute.
    Glancing through the letter to satisfy my curiosity, I discovered that it was some lighter clothes this time. New York was hot and she was running around in a fall suit. I ripped the letter up and flung the pieces into the trash-basket by the writing-desk. The next day was pay-day. I'd send her five dollars. Oh, I knew it was foolish. The chances were she'd drop half of it into the collection-plate.
    “For